The Make (21 page)

Chapter 47

Alfie was as happy as a pig in shit. He was loving the job, he was living with George and Harry; everything that had been so awful and so frightening about his world had somehow resolved itself into this arrangement that worked so well for all of them.

Well, he
hoped
that was the case.

He knew he had freaked George a little with the cuddles and kisses, but he couldn’t help that, he really couldn’t because he
loved
George, he adored him, and he had been stifling an impulse to get closer ever since he’d met him. It had been killing him having to suppress how he truly felt.

Now, George knew.

And at first – granted – George had been shocked.

That had hurt Alfie so much.

But now, George had mellowed. He had never mentioned that night again, but he was acting normally around Alfie, laughing, joking, having breakfast down the caff, still dating the women and – Alfie supposed, and felt a bit unhappy about it – still shagging them too, and taking their money for it. Harry had even suggested that Alfie go on the pay roll when he hit his eighteenth birthday. Well, why not? Harry said he was a good-looking boy; there was mega money to be earned. Why slog his guts out down the casino when the escorting biz paid so much better?

It had been George who had clamped down on
that
idea. And that had pleased Alfie immensely, because it gave him just a little hope that George might love him too, and might not
want
him getting involved with women. Whatever, Alfie knew that he could never get it up for a woman, anyway. He knew that horrible nonce Deano and his lapdog Lefty had spotted that in him early on. It made him shudder to think about it – all that had been done to him and how it could have ended.

It hurt Alfie that George could actually
go
with women. Maybe George was bi- and just didn’t know it yet. Certainly he had responded when Alfie had fondled him, kissed him. Or maybe he really was gay and was trying very, very hard not to face it, not to come out. Alfie hoped it was that. Because if it
was
, then one day George could be his and his alone.

One day.

Alfie dreamed of that.

And while Alfie dreamed, and Lefty Umbabwe was hearing about Alfie’s whereabouts from his ex-friend Gordon, the tides near the bridge rose and fell. Lefty hadn’t considered tidal movements or heights when he’d pushed the cab containing its dead driver into the river. He hadn’t considered
squat.
He’d been too jazzed for that.

But him and Mona had pushed it in at high tide, into water that was seven metres deep. Now, the tide was low, barely a metre of water there. The movements of the water and the traffic on the river had jolted and bumped the car along the muddy bottom and now it was lying on its roof just under London Bridge.

Someone was bound to see it there.

And eventually – of course – someone did.

Sally Paige was hurrying among the hordes of commuters, office workers just like herself, over the bridge. It was nearly nine o’clock in the morning, and she was trying not to breathe in, because the river was low. It looked like a narrow oily grey slug down there, and where the mud of the river bottom was exposed there were trolleys, bikes, flotsam and jetsam. The mud stank to high heaven and she hated that smell.

Sally hated a lot about her world. She hated her go-nowhere job, and the bossy cow who sat opposite her in the accounts department of Turbell and Whey, a small and extremely dull engineering firm; and most of all she hated her husband, who bored her witless. She’d been married to Simon for twelve years and the habits that had once endeared her to him now made her want to shriek with rage. The sniffing –
why
wouldn’t he use a handkerchief like any normal person? The bum-scratching. The insistence on a brisk morning hump, despite Sally’s often-stated preference for evenings. She
hated
morning humps. It was nearly Christmas, and Christmas was always crunch time for Sally. Every year she said to herself: this is it; this year I’m going to do it. I’m going to leave him.

Every year, she stayed.

But
this
year . . .

She came to a halt. People stepped around her, glaring, but she walked over to the edge of the bridge and looked down at the river, thinking of that fountain in Rome, what was it called, yeah, that was it, the Trevi Fountain, where you threw in a coin and made a wish. Her breath pluming out in front of her in the cold, dank, tainted air, she ignored the roaring traffic and the steady flow of pedestrians and thought to herself:
This time I’m going to do it.

She looked down at the grey oozing river, and a glint of metal caught her eye. Some junk or other down there. Yeah, she’d leave him, make a fresh start in a bright, hopeful New Year. Maybe even get another job. She felt her heart lift at the very idea of it. That glint again.

She craned over the parapet a little, curious. The smell rose up to her, making her gag. Mud and water. But there was definitely something down there, just under the bridge. Round things, like car tyres. And oh yes, the big, boxy rectangular shape of a car, but . . . yes, it was upside-down. Somebody must have just dumped it in there. She could see the windows on one side, dulled by silt and weed, but something . . . something was lolling against the window, something that looked like . . .

‘Oh
shit!
’ she burst out, clutching a hand to her chest.

Then she started to scream.

Chapter 48

It was chocolates this time.
Plain
chocolates, because he’d expressed an innocent preference for them once in the course of conversation. There had also been the cologne, the black leather wallet engraved with his initial ‘G’; there had even been – for God’s sake –
Gucci underpants.
And the roses. Now that had been downright embarrassing. A woman, sending him roses!

‘Look,’ said George as he sat with Sandy in the Italian restaurant she favoured, the one she always wanted to go to. She’d given him the red-ribboned box of chocolates at the start of the meal, and he had thanked her but held back on telling her to slow down until they were on their pudding, in case she kicked off. He didn’t want a whole evening of histrionics. Cheese board for George. Tiramisu for Sandy. ‘We really have to talk.’

‘Oh!’ Sandy gave a little laugh and put down her spoon. ‘That sounds ominous.’

‘It’s just . . . these presents. Come on. You can’t afford them . . .’

‘Yes I can. My gran died six months ago. She left me some cash.’

It was a lie. Granny Cole was alive and well and living in Holywell. Sandy had bought all George’s gifts on the plastic, paying off the minimum on her card each month. Her debt was mounting, but she ignored that, pushing it to one side. He was worth it, she told herself. And she had even . . . well, this was a big secret, one she hugged to herself with great glee, but she had even bought herself a ring, an engagement ring. She kept it well hidden from Noel and from George, but at work she wore it, told everyone that George had whisked her off to Paris and proposed to her there; it had been
so
romantic, and all the girls at work were pea-green with envy.

The sad truth was that on her last break what she’d really done was sit indoors watching telly while Noel got doped off his head. There had been no trips on the Seine, no Paris-by-night. In fact, no fuck-all.

‘Yeah, but look . . .’ George was struggling with this. To get expensive gifts from women made his skin crawl, made him feel demeaned, made him feel like a fucking oily
gigolo.
He had gone into the escort biz for the money. He had expected that sex with women would be a part of that equation, and that was okay. Not that Sandy had ever indicated she wanted
that.
All she ever seemed to want was to sit here, in this same restaurant, boring the arse off him with tales of her deadly dull little life.

‘I like buying you things,’ said Sandy, giving him a flirtatious look.

‘I know you do. And I appreciate it, but I would really rather you didn’t, okay?’

Sandy sat back and looked at him. ‘I’ve read about male escorts up West being given apartments. Sports cars. Exotic holidays,’ she said.

‘Yeah, I know, and I’d
hate
that,’ said George emphatically. He didn’t want the silly tart getting herself deep in debt and then blaming it on him.

Now there was a glint of tears in her eyes. She looked down at her half-eaten tiramisu then back up at George.

Shit, now I’ve upset her
, thought George. Well, maybe that was a good thing. Sandy was beginning, ever so slightly, to give him the dry heaves. He decided that the next time she sent one of her emails with the cute smiley faces and the hugs and kisses, he was going to press the delete button.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said in her small, childish voice.

‘It’s okay,’ said George, smiling reassuringly. Get this evening over, and he’d be
gone.
Enough of Sandy and her creepy, insidious little ways. He had plenty of other clients – straightforward, successful businesswomen with plenty of cash to splash and lonely evenings to fill. He’d stick with those. Sometimes there was a little problem with the sex, which he wouldn’t admit to a living soul, but he could do it. He told himself that, over and over. He could do it. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I had to say it, okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Sandy weakly, prodding the tiramisu with her spoon.

‘You’re a lovely girl, Sandy,’ said George.

She brightened then, raised a small smile.

‘I hope I haven’t offended you,’ said George. He really did hope that he hadn’t. He wanted a nice clear line drawn under this. No hassles. No comebacks.

‘No. You haven’t,’ she said, and Sandy started eating again.

* * *

‘Good night?’ asked Alfie, looking up from the sofa as George came into the lounge, shucking off his coat. The telly was on; the flat was warm and cosy. Harry was out on a job.

George tossed the box of chocolates down beside Alfie. ‘Here,’ he said.

‘What, did the client give you these?’ asked Alfie, pulling off the ribbon greedily.

George made a face. ‘She did.’ He looked at the roses that Alfie had put in a vase. ‘And I wish you’d flung those bloody things.’

‘I couldn’t just
bin
them: they’re nice,’ said Alfie, diving into the chocolates headfirst.

George watched Alfie chomping away and had to smile.

‘You’ll get gut-ache, eating this late in the day,’ said George, yawning. ‘I’m all in, I’m off to bed. G’night, mate.’

‘Night, George,’ said Alfie, past a mouthful of caramel and chocolate.

George was awoken in the small hours of the night by Alfie crying from the lounge.

Oh fuck
, he thought, his heart breaking into a fast canter. He lay there in the dark, remembering the last time he’d gone in to see Alfie. Remembering Alfie kissing him, and remembering that he, George Doyle, had responded, and would have gone further – much, much further – if he hadn’t come to his senses in time.

No, no. He wasn’t going down
that
blind alley again.

He turned over, pulled the pillow over his head, blotting out the sound. Let Harry go in and see to him – if he was back yet, which George sort of doubted; he usually heard Harry’s key in the door, and he hadn’t.

No. He wasn’t going in there. Alfie would probably wake himself up in a moment with all the noise he was making. And then he’d go back to sleep. It would all be okay.

George lay there. He could still hear Alfie’s cries, and they made George feel sick and anxious for him. It felt like hours, lying there, tense and tormented, wanting to go to him, but frightened to. Finally – it seemed to take forever – Alfie was quiet, and slowly, inch by inch, George relaxed, and was starting to drift off to sleep when he heard his bedroom door click open, then shut.

Oh no.

‘George?’ It was Alfie, coming to the bed, slipping under the covers, snuggling up against him. At the contact, George felt as if someone had plugged his entire body into the mains and fried him alive. His whole skin was suddenly, intensely, sensitized. He always slept naked, couldn’t bear to wear boxers or pyjamas or anything on him at night – although he kept a spare pair in his bottom drawer, in case of emergencies. And . . . oh fuck it, Alfie was nude too. He could feel Alfie’s smooth, lightly muscled nakedness pressing against him, could feel Alfie’s arm reaching across his chest, burning a trail of fire in its wake.

Oh God.

‘I had the dreams, George,’ said Alfie, burrowing his head in under George’s chin, the warm brush of that thick corn-gold hair and the sweet salty scent of Alfie’s skin sending George’s senses into a whirling nosedive. ‘Why didn’t you come? I had the fucking
dreams
. . .’ Alfie half sobbed.

George swallowed hard. He felt like he was way up on the top board at the swimming pool, getting ready to dive in . . . or fall off.
This
was what he’d been afraid of. Finding out the thing about himself that for years he had been trying so hard to ignore.

‘It’s okay, Alf,’ he managed to get out. ‘It’s okay, I’m here.’

He hugged Alfie hard against him, squeezed him tight.

Oh, such a feeling.
George closed his eyes and gave himself up to it.

Alfie. Oh Alfie, I love you so much
, he thought, and then his eyes opened, startled. He wondered if he’d said it aloud because he had
felt
it, had felt it and heard it and knew it was the truth.

‘It’s okay, Alf,’ he said to the shivering boy, and kissed his hair, and then Alfie lifted his head and George could see the faint wetness of tears on his pale moonlit face.

‘Please kiss me, George.
Please
,’ moaned Alfie.

George kissed him; he kissed Alfie as he had never kissed any woman – with his heart, his body and his soul. He felt close to tears himself, he loved Alfie so much.

‘I love you, I love you,’ he found himself murmuring ecstatically against the boy’s soft, silken skin.

‘I know, George. Oh, you bloody fool, don’t you think I know that?’ Alfie was half laughing and crying all at once. ‘I love you too, George. I love you.’

They made love, and George was gentle and slow and easy, the way he’d never been with any woman. This was right, this was
so
right. And when finally, at last, his orgasm came like a warm, shuddering, exquisite jolt of lightning, and Alfie’s came too, there was only peace and contentment and complete, utter joy afterwards. The way it had never been with any woman he’d ever been with.

They lay together afterwards, warm and happy, murmuring their love for each other, kissing each other’s tears away, laughing, snuggling down together, and finally sleeping like spoons, George behind Alfie, his arms wrapped securely around him as if he would never, ever let him go.